Back Again
by D McVetty
Summary: Castiel's ambitions are growing. With Purgatory open, and the Souls giving him power, he forgets who he was and becomes who he thinks he should have been. Meg and Dean have an uneasy truce to save the Angel from himself. /CasxMeg Alt S7
1. Introduction

**disclaim ;; **I do not own Supernatural. This story is written for entertainment and to further my plot development.

**information ;; **Taking place in 06.10 Caged Heat. Heavy spoilers for the season finale. Incredibly awesome integration of plot points from different seasons. I believe myself to be a genius with this one plot. Entire story inspired by the song "Back Again" by 16 Frames and my Tumblr dash which was suddenly bombarded with sexy CasxMeg kisses. I have random chapters written and the entire story is planned. I _will_ finish this, even if it takes me until next season. The more reviews, the more I write. The less reviews, the less I will update. Please enjoy.**  
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><p><strong>Introduction<strong>

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><p>Later, he might admit to his mistakes. To the Winchester Weakness, despite being an Angel of the Lord. Sometime between baiting and switching Crowley in what he would think to be the right move, and right before completing the ritual, he might admit to himself that he was more of a Winchester than he thought, and perhaps he would feel remorse for not listening to Dean. Fool him once, shame on her. Fool him twice, shame on Crowley. Of course, with the Winchesters stopping the Apocalypse, there is no way to tell the future, not anymore.<p>

Quite frankly, he wouldn't want to.

Passion blooms in every crevice of his mind, moans and gasps tickling his senses. Fingers wind in his hair, warm lips press against his, and in this moment he belongs to himself and his worldly desires. _'You wear your meatsuit like a coffin. Relax a little,'_ Meg had whispered. She showed him everything, showed him how to live. In those quiet moments, after the act, laying beside each other, in the comforting darkness, he could almost feel human. Her light touches to his skin, beads of sweat glistening beneath the stars. Their breathing fills the silence their words dare not touch. To the angel, this is his secret moment, one the Winchesters will never see, will never invade.

His quiet moment shatters under a familiar call. The voice intrudes on his silence with a request. One he does not wish to answer, still in the quiet after, but one that he must. Stirring from Meg's touch, the angel gives her one long look before vanishing. She understands the conditions of their relationship.

Sam is looking into the distance, as if the human might be able to spot him coming, as he answers the call. Clearing his throat, he says, "I'm here, Sam. Where is the box?"

Sam turns, and a grin crosses his face. "I can't believe you fell for that. That was the plot of Raiders, idiot."

He can feel the frustration growing in his gut. The thought of having left Meg for this, an insignificant, trifling matter. He responds with more anger than he'd thought, and with better wording than he'd intended, learning the act of deceit from Dean Winchester himself. "I'm mid-battle, Sam."

The Winchester scoffs. "I couldn't give a rat's ass about your little pissing match with Raphael."

He grits his teeth, tightening his fist. "Listen to me, Sam-"

"No, you listen!" Sam shouts, at his breaking point. Even soulless, he still has a sense of urgency. "I don't care what you're dealing with up in Heaven. You owe me."

"You may not care, but believe me-"

Sam shakes his head. "I'm sorry, do you think we're here to talk this out?"

"Sam, I can't just-"

"If you don't help us, I will hunt you down and kill you," Sam threatens angrily.

"Will you, _boy_?" he asks, feeling every will to hurt the Winchester before him. To show him a thing or two about the threat he is making. Who he is making it to. Nothing will be gained from it, and he stops himself short. "How?"

"I don't know yet. But I will look until I find out, and I don't sleep."

"You need help, Sam."

"I need your help."

The truth of that statement sends a pang of regret through his chest. He knows he owes Sam more than he has, but that is neither here or now, and he isn't ready to admit to that mistake. Not yet, not when he's making so many more.


	2. Tuesday

**disclaim ;; **I do not own Supernatural.

**information ;; **Chapter two. I feel silly adding all the episode bits to it, but I feel that it is necessary for the ultimate outcome of the story, which by chapter five, will have nothing to do with season six. As always, your reviews mean my writing more. If you could let me know what you think about posting the current playlist, I'd love it. I've never done this before but I really like when other authors do it. Enough chatter, please enjoy.

**current playlist ;; **Back Again by 16 Frames, Forever Young by Bob Dylan, Gravity by Intercept, Into The Ocean by Blue October, Lay All Your Love On Me by Abba, Rainymood (dot) com

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><p><strong>Tuesday<strong>

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><p>Their relationship is one of freedom, not to be taken for anything more than face value at the end of the day. Love is not a concept either being holds, and he above all else can not profess to the warm tingly emotion humans hold so dear. If anything can be said of their secret moments, it is a complete escape from their realities. Meg is running scared and he can do very little to help her. He is fighting a war against his brothers, and there is little she can do to help him.<p>

Leave it to the Winchesters, then, to find a way for Meg to assist the greater battle.

He returns to their place only to find she has abandoned the seedy motel. As with most times they leave a place, the walls are cracked, one section caving in, the bed is in disarray, the lights are blown out. He stands quietly, drinking in the details, even running the events across his mind. His vessel does not ache with what he now knows to be a need for release. Rather, his vessel is at peace and this leaves him at a greater ability to perform his functions in heaven. Fighting the battle against Raphael is, thus far, proving to be a losing one. He lacks the sheer power and numbers Raphael has built.

Who is he, Castiel, a lower ranking angel, to command God's soldiers?

This deters him for only a moment, still unfamiliar with doubt and uncertainty. Instead, there are things to be done while the Winchesters make plans of their own. He isn't sure how much longer he can tiptoe behind their backs, fighting as alone as he's ever been, but he knows they wont understand. They never will, not after everything they've seen. They are smart, perhaps too smart to not realize his sneaking around, but until they do, he will be free to keep Raphael at bay with the finite power he has now.

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><p>Demons are waiting for them outside Crowley's Murder Nursery. The knowledge that he has Crowley in the palm of his hand, that he can kill the King of Hell right now, if he so chose, and this can all be over, does nothing to sate him. There is too much riding on this one battle to act rashly now. He's made a deal and he can not simply back out on that deal. Perhaps, before pulling Sam from the cage, he could have killed Crowley without thinking. That isn't the case now. As he and the Winchesters walk to meet the demons, a beautifully familiar face appears from the group.<p>

"Remember me? I sure remember you, Clarence," Meg says with a knowing grin.

There is a split second pause where he has little idea what to do. He turns to Sam and Dean, what he hopes to be confusion on his face. "Why are we working with these abominations?" _Had they found out?_

"Keep talking like that," Meg sighs dreamily. "Makes my meatsuit all dewy."

"Alright, simmer down," Dean says, cutting the tension and stepping in. Again, Castiel wonders if they've found out. _Cant be._ "We know where Crowley is."

Meg's eyebrow twitches up momentarily, an interest behind her eyes. "Great. Do tell."

He stops paying attention when Sam starts speaking. He already knows. He has known, for some time. They're smart, the brothers, and he can only stay one step ahead of them for so long. That Meg is involved is neither his concern nor problem. She makes her own decisions, even if he knows them to be wrong. Terribly wrong, with terrible consequences.

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><p>Crowley's back is to him when he enters the room, trench coat ruffling around his legs. The King of Hell knows well that there is an angel in the room, but he doesn't turn. Rather, he grins down at the subject on his table and stabs the scalpel into the still-warm flesh.<p>

"Ah, Castiel, so glad you could come," Crowley purrs as he turns to address the angel, wiping bloody hands across his apron professing _'kiss the chef'_ in cursive letters. "What are your pets up to now?"

"The Winchesters are coming here tonight."

Crowley perks up, a glint to his eye. "Are they now? Well that _is _interesting. Wouldn't have anything to do with your information, would it?"

His expression remains the same. "No."

"Of course not, it never is."

"Where are your bones, Crowley?" he asks, deflecting the conversation.

The King of Hell pauses, flinches ever so slightly. His eyes flicker to Castiel's, and he lets a nervous grin flit over his lips. "Why would I tell you that?"

"The Winchesters know how to destroy you."

Crowley waves his hand in impatient dismissal. "I know this, what are you trying to get at?"

"_I_ know how to destroy you. They will be expecting my help," he says simply.

Crowley grins as the meaning dawns on him, pointing to the angel approvingly. "Oh, double agent. I like that. Have you any _more_ tricks?"

The increasingly familiar feeling of guilt tightens at his gut, but he doesn't falter. "The bones, Crowley."

"Of course, dear, let me get my bags."

Crowley snaps his fingers, and the room around them vanishes, replacing itself with a beach. Without his usual fanfare, the King of Hell walks to the tree line and stamps his foot over a patch of earth. "Enjoy digging," he says, vanishing from the beach as Castiel comes to a stop beside the patch of earth.

_Enjoy digging, indeed..._

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><p>Swinging the door open, his eyes first land on Meg, hiding away the little details, the way her devilish smile only grows wider as he stands before her. Her smirk to Dean, as if saying, <em>'That's how it's done, big boy.'<em> He had told himself this was nothing, but increasingly he feels that it might be something. Something entirely sinful and nothing redeeming about it. Somehow, he thinks redemption is beyond him, and perhaps in good time he will see why.

Dean nods to him, acknowledging his feat. He turns to Sam, a frown on his face. "This all seem a little too easy to you?"

Sam nods in agreement. "Way too easy," he says, stepping through the door first.

Castiel holds it open no longer than necessary. Meg looks up to him, and their eyes meet. He wants to tell her to flee, he wants to tell her Crowley isn't worth it, that there are bigger and darker things than herself in this world, but he can't seem to operate his voice, and she passes by with a knowing smirk as he makes sure they are not being followed.

Nothing. Something is wrong, he's sure of it.

Trailing at the back of the group, he has time to peek into the rooms Crowley holds his hostages. Djinn and Vampire alike, several Ghouls. Assortments of creatures that have never been seen under one roof until now. In the name of Purgatory, in the name of countless souls and a victory in the battle against Raphael. Suddenly reminded of his chilly purpose, he moves towards Dean and Sam, but not before a sound trickles into his ears. Pausing, he holds out his hand.

"Wait."

Dean turns, tension written in his features. "What is it?"

The collective group stands still, until the rasping barks can be heard echoing down the hall. Growing louder and more insistent with the scent of their prey. Four of them at least, probably more, and certainly Crowley's gigantic lap pet. He doesn't have to calculate the odds to know they are outnumbered and over powered.

"Damn it," Meg curses. "Here come the guards."

"Hell hounds." Dean's voice is breathless, perhaps from flashing back to his untimely death. They pause only a moment. "Go!"

None of them need encouragement. The corridor seems long and foreboding as their feet pound against the concrete floor and the barking grows louder from behind. He chances a single look over his shoulder, just as a hell hound drags one of Meg's demons to the floor screaming. Looking away, he sees Meg stumble, so close to the door, and without thinking of where they are and who is with them, he reaches out to her. Their hands touch, and he pulls her forward with him. She grabs his arm as they run through the doors, letting go only as the door behind closes and her feet are again under her and steady. Her second demon is dragged to the floor screaming, blood splashing up against the door's small window. Castiel is standing close to her, something like concern on his face. She notices his mistake - the Winchesters thankfully too busy procuring their barrier to do so - and moves away for him.

She knows their relationship, she knows what it means. This isn't love, this is release.

Dean whirls around from the door, facing Meg. "I knew this was a trap."

Meg arches her eyebrows. "What do you want, a cupcake?" she asks.

Sam points to the salt line. "Alright, that should keep them out," he says, breathing heavy to catch his breath.

"Not for long," Dean amends, eying Meg. "How many of them are there?"

She gives the slightest of grins. "Lots," she says. "I'll be pulling for you, from Cleveland."

"What?"

"I didn't know this was going to happen," Meg insists with a shake of her head. "Bright side? Them chewing up my meatsuit ought to buy you a few seconds."

Castiel flinches at the remark. Knowledge of one's true form can not possibly change the visual of the form he's seen her in, the form he's been with her in. Meg finding another host body might take time, and time is something Castiel has too much of and wants so much less of. Sam and Dean are just as appalled, though he realizes, they are shocked that she is leaving. It doesn't surprise him, he expects it and welcomes it. Something in him wants to keep her safe.

"Seacrest out," she says, but nothing happens. They stand for a moment, as if something might happen, and it does not. She looks to Castiel, surprise written across her face.

"A spell, I think, from Crowley," he says quickly, knowing just what it is. His gaze fixes on Meg, as if he can say sorry, but he knew what would happen here, he just hadn't been able to tell her. Apologizing now would be a waste of effort. "Within these walls, you're locked inside your body."

"Karma's a bitch, bitch," Dean snarks, receiving a glare from the demon. Suddenly struck with an idea, Sam rummages through his pockets, pulling out Ruby's knife. Dean looks skeptical, and he should be. "What are you doing, gonna slash at thin air until you hit something?" he asks.

Sam ignores him, handing the knife to Meg. "You can see them. Take this, hold them off. It's our best shot."

Meg eyes the knife hesitantly, as if contemplating the need for it. She doesn't move to take it. "At Crowley," she says at last. "Take it and go. You kill the smarmy dick, I'll hold off the dogs."

Dean scoffs, perhaps wondering if everyone around him has gone mad. "How you gonna do that?" he asks, trailing off.

Meg closes the gap between herself and Castiel, locking their lips, one hand pulling the angel closer by the back of his neck. There is a tiny moan, shared between their lips and their ears only, a pleasant vibration. Meg pulls away, a grin on her face, and he stares down at her, furious at first, though his body aches for more of her touch in ways he never believed possible. An angel, with such feelings?

Feelings that take over the rational part of his mind. He lifts the small brunette and turns as her arms wrap around his neck, pressing her against the wall. Their lips meet in a passionate kiss, hands kneading, touching, pressing. Meg whimpers, trying to suppress a moan. Parting their lips slightly, the angel breathes, _"Don't do this." _Meg shivers, arching her body against his, but she gives him no response. Pressing her against the wall with one hand, he pulls away, giving her as pleading a look an angel can. He releases her and stands awkwardly.

"What was that?" she asks playfully.

Dean and Sam are staring at him, them, and he wonders if they know. If they might think. If they might guess. If they might catch on to his shenanigans. But they are in shock, and he can't blame them. His shock, that first time, had been similar, if not slightly more violent. They are expecting an answer, though he suspects Meg is just looking at him longingly at this point, that clever glint in her eye. After staring at Dean and Sam with worry, he looks to Meg.

"I learned that from the pizza man," he says, never breaking eye contact with the demon.

Dean has something to say, he lifts his hand, though Meg smirks back and finds her words first. "Well, A-plus for you. I fell so... clean." Her reflection lasts a moment, a hazy dream flitting past her eyes, before she realizes where she is. Lifting her hand, clutching Castiel's blade, she regains composure. "Okay, gotta go."

Castiel pats his hips, searching for his weapon, even looks down to see it, though there is nothing there. Meg has taken it from him, the crafty demon she is. He can't bring himself to be terribly upset with her about the blade. Still, he doesn't wish to see her here. If anything should go wrong...

Dean tries to be the voice of reason, stepping forward. "Whoa, whoa, is that gonna work on a hell hound?"

Meg looks at it, wondering the same thing herself, before shrugging. "Well, we're about to find out. Run."

He pauses long enough for Dean to look back at him expectantly, then they are off. The hell hounds burst through the door as they are closing the door to the stairs. Their snarls and howls shake him to the bone, but still he presses on. Suppressing the urge to go back, he takes the lead, dropping down the steps quickly. Something is amiss.

"Can't see jack," Dean complains under his breath.

Castiel turns to look back, to possibly say something to the older Winchester, but it doesn't come out. He hitches on the stairs, a blinding light searing through the room and into his being. He hears Dean shout his name, feels one of the brothers grab for him, though the blood seal has done its work. As the light fades, he finds himself miles from the battle on Tuesday afternoon.


	3. Burn

**disclaim ;; **I do not own Supernatural. I am writing this for entertainment and to further my own plot development.

**information ;; **Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews! I am always happy to read them. Warning for future chapters : There is going to be sexy scenes, angst, death, and all manner of terrible things happening to our favorite characters. I have the turning point of the story written out (post 06.22!) and am excited to see what everyone thinks. Again I am terribly sorry for the choppiness that is my interpretation of the episodes. That will all be over in the fifth chapter. Please, enjoy. I certainly enjoyed writing this!

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><p><strong>Burn<strong>

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><p>As soon as he is out of the compound, he is trying to find a way back in. The Winchesters need him, but above all else, he is red hot and angry at Crowley's nerve, allowing his little pet to banish an Angel of the Lord. Castiel can feel his anger mounting as his ways into the compound are consistently blocked. Crowley is making a conscious decision to seal his entry points. After what feels like hours, the veil falls suddenly from the building. He doesn't rush in - he can't take the chance. Slow, steady, cautious. Something is amiss and he doesn't want to step into anything he can't clean off his loafers. Inside, he finds trails of dead creatures and demons - two trapped inside a vault. It is a torture room that gets his attention. A torture room with everyone neatly assembled, and things going south quickly.<p>

Crowley pushes the boys out of the way and rounds on Meg with the knife. Sensing it is his time to step in, Castiel appears in the room with a rustle of feathers. He can see Crowley tense, can see the frustration in the Demon's stance as he turns around.

"Leave them alone." His voice is steady, dangerous, and he knows beneath the tone, what he wants to say is, _Leave her alone_. They can't know his feelings have gone beyond Sin. He is still Castiel. Just Castiel. Meg stands still, the blade threatening her life, and he risks looking her in the eyes. She is scared of the position she's put herself in, fearful of not having the upper hand. He knows what it is like, he knows what it is to be the underdog.

"Castiel," the King of Hell is furious behind his calm greeting. Furious that his plans, going so well, were crushed by these insects. That he now has to play by Castiel's game. Leave it to the Winchesters, the boys who just cant die, the boys who Castiel himself is far too involved with. So Crowley keeps up the ruse, a sarcastic smirk on his lips. "Haven't seen you all season, you the calvary now?"

"Put the knife down," he warns icily.

"You that _bossy _in heaven?" Crowley asks cheekily. Confident grin growing on his face, he gets bold. "Hear you're losing out to Raphael. The whole affair makes Vietnam look like a roller derby."

Castiel doesn't answer, too angry to properly form words that will not incriminate himself. If Crowley continues talking, he might blow the entire thing, might expose Castiel for the double agent he really is. Letting the burlap sack unroll in his grip, he returns Crowley's look. This is acting, for the King of Hell. He is acting, and the Angel is furious. Taking the Winchesters, taking Meg, was not part of the plan, and the King of Hell will not easily forget it.

"Okay, what's in the gift bag?" Crowley questions.

Reaching inside, he pulls out a skull, dirty with age. "You are," he answers, anger behind his glare.

Crowley hams up the acting, shaking his head. "Not possible."

"You didn't hide your bones as well as you should have."

Crowley pauses a moment, then claps and smiles. "Cookie for you."

Castiel doesn't stray from the topic. He knows what he is here for. Helping the Winchesters, not himself. Tossing the skull into the bag, he drops it to the floor with a clatter. "Can you restore Sam's soul, or not?"

With a snap of his fingers, Sam and Dean are released from the hold, dropping to the floor. Crowley holds his hands out, looking at each of them questioningly. He almost seems backed into a corner, but he likes this attention. He likes the upper hand he has had the whole time. "If I can help in any other way..."

"Answer him!" Dean barks.

Crowley's eyes linger on the brothers before returning to Castiel, though he isn't afraid. Not as he should be. Not as he would be if this were really happening. With little trepidation, he shrugs. "I can't"

_Snap_. Flames eat up the burlap sack. The King of Hell smoulders before bursting into flames. It is real. The Winchesters know what it looks like, they're not stupid. They know, and Castiel is dedicated to them, even in his newfound dedication to himself. It is this discovery of Pride that keeps the bones aflame, knowing Crowley is not faking, knowing the King himself is in dire pain and perilously close to dying. It is Pride, too, that replaced all but the femur of Crowley's skeleton with bones from a man buried in Ireland. He will not die, not yet, though perhaps Crowley, King of Hell, would have done well to conjure the bones up from the ground rather than sending an Angel of the Lord to dig them up.

Next time, Crowley might think about that.

Now, Castiel is letting Crowley burn for everything that has happened. For allowing his pet to banish him, for attempting to harm the Winchesters, for allowing a demon to torture Meg. For threatening the sanctity of the feelings he denies to admit. Perhaps more so for trying to block him out once he had been banished. For thinking that he, Crowley, King of Hell, could keep out a determined and angry Angel of the Lord.

The final screams echo through the room as the ashes fall to the floor. Meg sighs in relief, her eyes meeting Castiel's. She offers him a thankful smile, but in this company, he can not give her any signal back. Dean and Sam stare at the embers, unable to believe what their eyes just showed them. It is Sam who bends to pick up the blade, recovering sooner than his brother. When he stands, Meg is gone, and Castiel is glad.

"Well she's smart, I'll give her that," Dean says with a sigh. "I was going to killed her too. Of course, I would have given you an hour with her first." He looks to Castiel as he says this, a knowing look on his face.

_They know_. It rushes through him quickly, and he tries to figure out how. Was it showing concern? Telling Crowley to drop the knife? The kiss? Did they find out so soon? How could they know? Swallowing hard, he adverts his gaze. "Why would I want that?" he asks thickly.

Dean arches an eyebrow and grins. "I brought you to a whore house and you didn't even flinch. You watch some Porn and suddenly you're Hugh Grant." He laughs, and Castiel realizes he is joking. "Do me a favor, no more porn. Do that on your own time."

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><p>Killing is messy business, even when the victims are monsters. He carries out the task assigned to him by the Winchesters. He doesn't report back to them, they still trust him. They will assume he's killed the rest of the demons, and he does. The creatures, the demons, all of them are sent to Purgatory. Crowley is nowhere to be seen, and Castiel gives half-hearted attempts at gleaning Purgatory's location from the remaining creatures. He gets nothing. Not surprising, if Crowley cant get anything at the best of times.<p>

With the entire compound purged, he has nowhere to go. Not back to Dean and Sam, not to find Crowley, not to fight his war in Heaven. He is falling behind, but the less he shows his face, the better his chances are. If Raphael catches wind of his plans, if the Archangel realizes what is being done beneath his domain, Castiel will be too weak to hold him off. He needs the weapons of Heaven. He needs Purgatory.

But what will he do with it?

The question plagues his mind daily. Only in times with Meg does the question lay in the back of his mind, invisible. There are more important things to worry himself over in their quiet moments. He realizes there is unfinished business with his Demon lover. He is missing his Angelic Blade, and if any Raphael Loyalists find him without it, he will be defenseless.

Finding Meg is difficult. When he finally locates her, she is seven states away in a cheap family run motel. Rats and roaches in the walls, leaking pipes, creaky beds. The kind of place you would only take secrets to. The kind of place Castiel has come to feel welcome in. She jumps as he appears, her hand instinctually thrusting the Angelic Blade in his direction. He is unflinching at her hostility, and her breath hitches in her throat. She breathes out, dropping the blade with a clatter to the floor. Three steps forward and she wraps her arms around him, pressing their lips together in a hungry kiss that surprises the Angel. He backs into a wall, hands gripping her hips.

Her teeth rake over his bottom lip, drawing blood. "Don't ever pretend I need saving again," she hisses, pressing her body against his. "I'm perfectly capable."

"I'm aware," he replies, spinning her against the wall, turning the tables. "I was simply-"

She quirks an eyebrow, daring him to continue. For once, he doesn't dig himself into a hole. Humans are fickle and difficult to understand. Demons and Angels, as he has learned, are not far different. Not as much as they desire to think. Holding her against the wall with one hand, his other moves down her thigh, teasing as he moves.

"Oh, what _else _did you learn from the pizza man?" Meg purrs, moving into his touches.

"We don't talk about it," he answers.

"Well," she says, a pout on her face. "Can we do it then?"

"That might be acceptable."

Meg grins, rubbing against him. "Might? Come on, Clarence –"_ her fingers are working his belt off _"– You know you want to ace the test –" _she's unbuttoning his khaki slacks _"–How're you supposed to do that when you haven't practiced?"

It is a sin. Of this he is sure. Her taste, her feel against him, her sounds of pleasure. Never has such pleasure entered his being. He has learned why humans spend so much of their time thinking of this act, why they spend so much of their time courting mates when their fate is to die at the end. He knows, now, that there are things on earth that can not be replicated elsewhere. Not even in one's personal heaven. Alone for eternity in one's happiest memories, never feeling the touch of a companion again. He wants this to last, to never grow old, to never leave him.

Of only one thing is he unsure; how much he will do to keep these moments to himself.


	4. Falling

**disclaim ;;** I do not own Supernatural.

**info ;;** Long overdue, not as fantastic as planned, but goodness I was getting nervous with all the press releases people've been Tumbling. Thank you to those of you who've stuck with me, it has been a rough last month for me but I will stick with this story to its completion. Please enjoy this chapter, because it is the last chapter wherein you know what will happen. From here on out, it is unscripted, purely of my own imagination.

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><p><strong>Falling<strong>

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><p>It is in Bobby's kitchen, as the Winchesters and the old hunter are meeting, that he realizes something is wrong. Perhaps his meticulous nature is finally beginning to slip. His escapes with Meg are beginning to leak through. For a heart-stopping minute, he almost unveils himself to prove he is not with the Demon at the present moment, despite having been there moments before. He is thankful the human sense of smell and awareness is limited, or perhaps they would have discovered his indiscretions sooner. Only as Dean steps forward to mention Crowley does his stomach settle. Just as soon, it is flipping again.<p>

The Winchesters are crawling in on his secrets, and he can do little to stop them.

When Rachel calls him from heaven with urgent news, he again feels like something is amiss. They found Crowley, they discovered Purgatory. Perhaps Raphael sniffed him out. But it is just Rachel and as far as she lets on, no one else knows. They only suspect, and like a fool, he confirms her suspicions with lighting speed. He wants to talk it over with her, he wants to explain what happened and why he is consorting with the King of Hell. He wants to explain that he never means to keep his side of the bargain - he's an angel, he has the ability to break a pact with a devil - but she doesn't give him a chance. The fight is unpleasant, but not unexpected. One can only last so long when they're doing something wrong.

World spinning out of control, pain spiking through his chest, and with the death of another Angel searing into his conscience, he lets his wings take him to the first safe place he thinks of. Bobby's kitchen tumbles into place around him, and he is smearing blood onto the refrigerator. The old hunter can complain later, now it is a matter of personal safety. When he stands to explain, he stumbles several steps and collapses.

Bobby is there to catch him when he falls.

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><p>It is not long after this that he realizes he can not keep up the charade on all fronts. Crowley threatens the Winchesters, this time with more menace, more meaning, and he takes things into his own hands. For now, the King of Hell is off the tail of the Winchesters, and it is Castiel's job to put his faithful on the wrong path. As imagined, it is a difficult task to take their minds from Crowley.<p>

Perhaps too difficult.

A sudden shift sets him on edge, and he is there before he can change his own actions. The boys are where he thought they would be, but there is something else with them. Crowley's best, and he can feel bile rising in his throat at the choice he is about to make. Both sides of his fence are at war, and eventually, the beams that support it are going to fall. He's just playing jenga with the bits he has left. He's playing the only cards he has left, and he's playing them all wrong.

With an iron grip, he exorcizes the Demon attacking Dean, dropping the limp body and straightening. There is a split second that his eyes meet Dean's, and the older Winchester stares at him, both in relief and something else, though he is too preoccupied to read into subtle human emotions. The demon attacking Bobby is next, and the third demon is dispatched with before it can kick Sam again. As the trio of hunters that are such a blessing and a curse to the Angel gather themselves, Bobby snatching his hat from the floor, he can only watch.

He can never imagine he will make such a mistake, but he does. Superman going darkside. The slip of his eavesdropping is out before he realizes it. Bobby looks at him strangely, Sam twists his face in a look of mistrust. Dean's face is that of a Shakespearian tragedy. Sorrow and pain and regret. Unshed tears brim on his eyes, and Castiel wishes he can take it back. Wishes he can move time, like liquid, but knows he can not. Hiding his own pain, he keeps up his charade.

Crowley's torture room gains a hole into the brick and mortar with Castiel's anger.

* * *

><p>Meg demands his attention suddenly, clinging to him before they enter their motel room, draping off his arm like a lovesick puppy. The man behind the counter winks at him, giving him a grin, and Meg shakes her posterior as she walks away, her hip brushing against his, her arm around his waist, pressing against him tightly. Like a feline showing all the affection a lion of the Serengeti might. Their room number is thirteen, he doesn't mention the irony, and if he does notice it, he is too busy with Meg's wandering hands. She coos softly to him, fingers threading through his hair, 'you're doing the right thing' she says in mock reverence, voice sultry and low. Her breath touches his face, her tongue licks across his ear. He pulls the door off the hinges as he fumbles his way inside, kicking it shut behind them as both arms hold onto his lover.<p>

Lover.

For the first time, he allows himself to think in these terms. It brings a sudden clarity to the act, rockets his consciousness into outer space and beyond. At his first shaky breaths afterword, he wraps his arms around her and lays quietly, deep in thought, until she stirs in his grasp. Her needing touches begin the cycle again, and this time, he blocks the thoughts from his mind.

He's fallen far enough.

* * *

><p>He tries to double-cross the King of Hell and fails. His demand comes across too weak, and the dark creature is too strong to listen to him. The only surprise about the uprising is the company the demon keeps. Raphael. Of course, it is only natural that Crowley moves on to bigger and better ponds, and nowhere is quite as good as Heaven, where the fish are big and the stakes are higher. Crowley's ultimatum is clear, concise, and to the point. His own family has deserted him, and now Crowley is turning on him. Right when he stands up for himself, right when it matters most, the Angel finds himself in the company of beings he can not outmaneuver in a fight.<p>

He flees.

But he takes the blood with him.

It is disgusting, at first. Disgusting and wrong and a bit like sticking your hands in a warm pile of cow dung. At least, this is what he tells himself and continues to repeat as he is slathering the walls in symbols. Wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong, this is for the greater good, but this is wrong. If he lies to himself enough, he thinks it will be true.

The actual truth of the matter is that he is quite enjoying himself, painting the walls with symbols to open Purgatory. The thrill of power with each stroke of bloody paint sends shivers down his spine. When the last stroke brushes the wall, he stands back a moment to admire his handiwork. Wrong, wrong, but oh so thrilling. Racing with excitement, anticipating what is to happen once the door is open, he recites the words in as pure enunciation as he can manage. The first time he recites the words, he fumbles over several and has to pause and back up. On the second try, he feels the pulse from the other side. Something digging, scratching, pulling.

On the last word, the first syllable, something pushes through. Something brushes past him, touches on his very being, sends chills down his spine. For a moment, he thinks this through, but he has no chance to stop the last syllable from sliding through his lips.

A flood of feelings rush through him, the images of a million lives, blood-soaked and horrible. Claws rip at his body, teeth sink into his being, fingers pull and grasp. The light is blinding, the pain is immeasurable. Somewhere in the great distance, he can hear Meg screaming his name. There is sudden darkness, a sudden silence before the storm. Meg calls his name, sounding quiet and alone.

Then the screaming starts.

* * *

><p>When he wakes, something is different. His conscious winks into existence, flickering like a candle before blasting full spectrum. Meg is unconscious on the floor, dried blood on her lips. A flicker of emotion passes in him, a stirring in his body, but he doesn't act on it. He gets to his feet, brushing his coat down. Blood is crusted on his hands, and he reaches to his face. More blood crusts around his lips and nose. Nagging disgust lingers in his mind as he moves to the symbols on the wall. They are no longer bloody, they are burned into the brick, seared deep into the stone. His hand touches against the ice cold wall, and it shimmers, the bricks shedding the burns like old skin, healing over. He turns to Meg, but she doesn't stir.<p>

Kneeling, he presses his middle and index finger against her forehead and she wakes with a start, coughing and sputtering, eyes wide. She scrambles from him across the floor, pushing herself away as more blood drips from her full lips.

"What are you?" she asks, voice hoarse, hands running along her face.

Clenching his jaw, he stands, looking down at her. "I am the new God."

She pales, and he can see her beginning to leave her shell, can see it in her eyes, in her very intentions. He knows everything, and he knows everything that has been and will be. He remembers things he has never seen with his eyes. Every soul within him is giving him information, every soul is pressing outward, barely contained within Jimmy Novak's body. Above all, he knows what will happen to her when he leaves, when he begins his duties as the New God.

Most importantly, he knows what he must do right now.

"Impossible," she breathes, shaky, and she tires to leave her body, the black mass swirling out of her mouth.

"No," he says sternly, and the demon stops midway, returning to the body. "You will stay here. _Right here_. Do you understand?"

Meg whimpers as he looms over her, his eyes cold with the souls of a million monsters. She nods silently when he asks her again. She doesn't dare speak to him. The power, the danger emminating from his body, is enough to quell the snarky demon into silence.

"I have to find Crowley," he says absently, looking out the window.

He is gone the next moment.

* * *

><p>The light blinds those in the room, but he sees through it. Sees Crowley and Raphael, sees the Winchesters. The dog blood on the wall is drying in the air, runny and dripping. Sloppy. As the gathered party blinks away the light of his brilliance, they give him the usual look. <em>Its Castiel, just Castiel, not Superman turned to the darkside. <em>They have no idea. No one does, except Dean, who stares at him in horror at what he's become.

The very figure Dean has run from his whole life now stands before him.

Crowley is gone the second he reveals himself. No matter, he has bigger fish to fry. Crowley will serve his purpose in time to come. More insolent beings of Heaven that need punishment. What punishment more fitting than that of his older brother? With a snap of his fingers, Raphael is nothing more than red mist and bloody chunks splattered against the walls. He turns to the Winchesters, lets them bask in his light, lets them see that he saved them, he is a merciful God. That all he wants in return is love, respect, and undying loyalty. Unquestioning, infallible loyalty in the form of worship.

Naturally, the Winchesters lie. They are good at lying, something they grew up to master under John Winchester, the humble family man turned hunter. There is a smile on the corner of his lips as he watches them lie, but he is not amused. He allows the charade, he nods, but there is a clear understanding between himself and Dean. This is not over, not yet, not until they bow to him.

There is no other option, and Dean knows it as Castiel leaves in a blinding flash of light.

* * *

><p>It is dank in hell, the eternal waiting line milling ahead to start again at the end. He walks past these, moves further down. In his palm, four rings clink together, tumbling as he moves further down the line. Hell's layout has since altered in Crowley's redesign. Perhaps to confuse the new God, to keep him from his intentions. Surely Crowley has had enough time to fortify his defenses. Even as he walks, the area around him seems to shift and alter itself. Several times he thinks he is going in circles.<p>

Ripples begin moving through the line, until a condemned soul shrieks and falls back from him. Others follow the first's lead, until the line becomes a domino effect of shrieking and panic. Pausing at what he believes to be the middle of the line, he looks down at a condemned soul, a man who died of a heart attack, who led an unfaithful life with his wife and had children out of wedlock.

"Silence, all of you," he says. His voice is everything and nothing, a sense of dread and joy in the same breath. As the line quiets, he continues forward. Crowley's Labyrinth is beginning to grate on his nerves. At a turn, when he thought he would be to his destination, there is nothing but further line.

Light bursts from his fist and the walls come down. "Crowley!" he shouts into the white light. "You can not change destiny!"

"But I can stall it," the King of Hell wheedles back, his disembodied voice echoing in the emptiness. "I don't much appreciate what you're doing down here."

"It is as my Father wished it."

"Well, if you put it that way," Crowley says, trying desperately to sound bored but coming off shaky. "Find them yourself, I'm sure you'll love the surprise."

The whiteness around melts, and he is standing beside a blood soaked iron cage. Rolling the rings in his palm, he stares down the creatures within. So many years in hell, locked here, have set them on edge. There is a feral glint in both of them, bloody and ravaging, panting from an eternal fight one is losing at a torturously slow pace. They pause only to stare at him, and dull recognition flickers in their eyes. Claws reach out, pawing at him, trying to reach him, to pull him in, to rip him apart.

"Father is gone," Castiel informs them. "I am the new God."

Retracting their claws, both creatures snarl, hungry eyes looking to the rings. They can sense the intentions, they can feel the power.

"There will be an apocalypse, and you will end it as it was written."


	5. Scribbles

**note;** This is a continuation of Back Again (hence being chapter 5). From this point on, it will make more sense. I guess you can call this an alternative Season Seven. Which I have not seen, actually. So I'm not sure what is going on in Supernatural past Season Six's finale. Right. So here it is. I hope you enjoy it and I hope that you do not hate me forever for taking ages to update it and then changing up the style. I love you. I also love reviews.

* * *

><p><strong>Scribbles<strong>

* * *

><p>Dean slams the crowbar against the hood of the Impala, a strangled grunt of anger escaping his throat. He lets the tool drop to the ground, wipes sweat from his forehead, and stares across the mangled wreck. Sam is standing still, holding a soda and a bagged sandwich in his hands. Their eyes meet, and Dean lets out a frustrated sigh, bending to pick up the crowbar. He sets it on the hood, fitting it neatly into the dent. Much like the rest of the Impala, the hood looks like it got into a fight with an avalanche of boulders.<p>

"Hungry?" Sam asks.

"Yeah," Dean grunts. He runs a hand through his short hair, shaking his head.

Sam sets the meager meal on the hood, peering into the destroyed interior. "Looks good."

"Don't lie, Sammy." Dean picks up the soda, cracks the tab to take a drink. He slams the entire can without a breath, tossing it aside when the last drop is gone. "I've been fixing this car since Dad gave it to me. Every time something bad happened to her, I fixed it. But not this time."

"What do you mean? It'll just take longer, that's all," Sam encourages, patting the car.

"No, look," Dean growls, moving closer to the car to jab a finger at the interior.

Sam leans in, poking his head through the shattered window. His eyes scan the ruins. "What? I don't see anything."

Dean grunts, a quiet defeat in his voice. "The ash tray."

When Sam looks again, he can see what has Dean more down than usual when fixing his beloved car. The little green army man is missing from its customary spot, and Sam, at first, can't believe it actually came out of the tray. "Oh," he says in response.

"Did Bobby find anything?" Dean asks, switching the subject.

"Not that I know. He's been asking for books all day. Wont even get up to eat."

"Is that why you're playing housewife?" Dean gestures to the sandwich.

"Shut up."

Dean shakes his head, taking the food. "Thanks."

"Yeah. I have to get back inside. Bobby reads pretty fast when he's not drunk."

"I believe it."

Sam gives Dean one last look, as if determining if the man can be left alone, before walking back to the house. As the door closes behind him, he hears a shuffle of papers and Bobby's grumble of irritation. He tries to slink into the kitchen and make himself something to eat, but he's too big to sneak anywhere in Bobby's house.

"Sam, is that you?" Bobby calls.

"Yeah."

"Can you bring me a pen?"

Sam frowns, but doesn't protest. He rummages through the kitchen drawers until he comes up with a pen and walks into the study. Bobby's books are strewn across the desk, some of them marked with slips of paper, some of them wide open on pages that might be of use to them. When Sam walks in, Bobby looks up from the dusty pages of a thick book, taking the pen from Sam's hand.

"Thanks."

"Find anything yet?"

"Well, if by 'find anything' you mean a whole lot of nothin', then yeah, I found something," Bobby replies. He flips the pages in front of him, shaking his grizzled head. "You know, not many people wrote on God. At least, not what to do about killing Him."

"So no luck."

"You could say that." Bobby pulls out a slip of paper that already has scribbles in every corner. He copies the symbol on the page as exactly as possible, dropping the pen when he's done. "We can cover the place in wards and symbols but there's no guarantee it'll do any good."

A sultry feminine voice interrupts the pair. "You're going to need more than scribbles to stop him."

Sam twists around, eyes locking onto the short woman. "Meg."

"What's the matter, Sammy? Did you miss me?" she asks, swaying into the study with a grin.

"Missed you like a tooth misses a cavity," Bobby grunts, getting to his feet. "Why are you here?"

Meg pouts, stopping short of Sam, eyes on Bobby. "Don't get all hostile on me. I'm here to help you."

"Yeah, we've heard that before," Sam says. "Cut to the chase."

"Castiel climbed a little too high on his ladder," Meg answers, the look on her face turning sour. "It's in my best interest to stop him, and I figured you boys would be up to the challenge."

"She does know you two," Bobby credits.

"Thanks," Sam says. He turns to Meg, looking her up and down. "What do you want?"

"I'd like if you didn't kill me, for starters."

"I'll do my best."

"Good," Meg says. She saunters around the rug, her eyes shifting up to the ceiling for a moment, before coming to a rest by the desk. She looks down at the books, her finger trailing over the pages. "None of these are going to help you."

"Something tells me you can't help either," Sam growls.

"That's where you're wrong."

"Oh?"

"Where's your brother? He might want to hear this."

_...later_

"Why are we trusting this bitch again?" Dean demands, gesturing wildly at the road behind the wheel of Bobby's ancient pickup truck.

"I feel the love," Meg says dully, sitting beside Dean on the bench seat, the shifting knob between her knees.

"She told you her story," Sam reminds his brother.

"And we're supposed to believe her? Sam, she tried to kill us. Do you remember that?"

Sam doesn't respond.

"Come on, Deano, don't be so harsh," Meg purrs. "I told you where Castiel is."

"And he wasn't there."

"He moves fast."

Dean pulls the truck off the highway, rolling down streets of suburban homes. The further they drive in silence, the older the houses get, until one house in particular piques Dean's interest. He comes to a stop outside the rambler, shifting the truck into park while trying to keep his hands from touching Meg's knees – or any other part of her.

"We're here."

"Where's here?" Meg asks.

"It's a point between A and B. Get out," Dean commands, getting out of the truck as Sam gets out the other side. The two of them stand on the sidewalk, looking up at the house.

"Do you think he'll be any help?" Sam asks.

"Can't hurt to try," Dean answers.

"Oh, are we going to your therapist?" Meg asks, sliding between the brothers with a sly grin.

"Can it, you're only here so I can keep an eye on you," Dean warns.

The unlikely trio step up to the porch, Dean knocking on the door. There is a shuffle behind, then the door cracks open, the chain draping in the crack. Chuck's mousey face peers out, his eyes quickly scanning the company on his doorstep. He doesn't linger on Meg, but rather on Dean.

"Can we come in?" Dean asks impatiently.

Chuck sighs. "I guess. Hold on." The door closes, and there is a scrape of metal-on-metal before it opens back up and Chuck ushers the group in. The house is in shambles, papers everywhere, the computer's glow illuminating the mess of coffee cups on the desk. A half-eaten tv dinner sits beside the keyboard. Chuck sits on the chair and closes the computer down. He picks at the food momentarily before shaking his head.

"Any news?" Dean asks.

Chuck fidgets with his fork. "Everything is kind of... jumbled."

"Jumbled?" Sam asks.

"All the Angels are talking at the same time. It sounds like a circus up there." Chuck rubs his head, and it becomes incredibly obvious that he has been missing entire nights of sleep. There are deep bruising circles beneath his reddened eyes, and his beard is shaggy and untrimmed.

"Have you written anything lately?" Sam asks, thumbing papers across the desk.

"Nothing that makes much sense."

"Sounds like our lives," Dean answers.

"Nice therapist, boys," Meg says finally, imposing her vibrant self into the room.

Dean turns around, holding his hands up to emphasize his point. "_Prophet_. He's a _prophet_."

"She knows that," Chuck says, getting to his feet. He moves around the desk, collecting papers. When he compiled a good amount, he divides it into two chunks and hands one each to Sam and Dean. "This is what it sounds like. I tried making as much sense of it as I could, but there's nothing."

"Thanks," Sam says, taking the papers.

Chuck keeps his eye on the pair, making sure they are fully immersed in the papers before he takes Meg by the sleeve and brings her into the kitchen, despite her protests. When they are around the corner from the Winchesters, he looks to the demon, his eyes knowing.

"What's this about?" Meg asks.

Chuck sighs, rubbing his head. "I know. Everything. I didn't write any of it in the papers, but I do know."

"I don't know what you're talking about, meatsack," Meg growls, moving to leave the kitchen.

Chuck sidesteps, blocking her way. "Meg, I'm a Prophet, not a gossip. I know what stays in and what has to sit out. Your relationship with Castiel is important in the long run, but it isn't something that needs writing."

"I could kill you right now."

"I'm sure you could. The Archangels seem more interested in arguing than keeping their Prophet safe."

"Then what's stopping me?"

"Curiosity."

"Talk."

"You need to help the Winchesters. Castiel is dangerous. He's going to release Lucifer and Michael from the pit. He thinks he's God."

Meg's eyes lift to meet Chuck's, searching him for more. "But he's not?" she asks.

Chuck purses his lips. "I can't say any more."

"You're a useless little man."

"You know, I resent that."

Sam leans in the doorway, looking between the two curiously. "Uh, Chuck? Could we have you in here?"

"Sure," the Prophet answers, giving Meg a short look before following Sam. Dean is leaning on the arm of the couch, shuffling papers. "What is it?"

"There's nothing about Castiel in here," Dean says.

"There's nothing about anything in there," Chuck answers, taking the papers and tossing them on the desk. "I'm sorry, I can't help you."

"It was worth a shot," Sam says with a shrug.

A phone begins to ring, and they look to Dean. He fishes the phone from his pocket and checks the caller identification before he answers it. "Hey, Bobby." He pauses to listen, looking at Sam. "Okay." He frowns, looks down, then back up to see Meg standing beside his brother. "Alright, we'll be there in a bit." He puts the phone back in his pocket, shifting his gaze to Sam. "Bobby found something."

… _later_

"Go on, I'll be right in," Dean says, waving Sam towards the house.

The big moose gives the pair a look, trying to decide if Dean should be left alone with Meg or not. When Dean gives him a look, he sighs in frustration and turns away with a shrug. He closes the door behind him with a bang, and doesn't look back.

Dean points to Meg, gesturing to the house. "If you think I'm going to let you walk in and ruin what we have, you're wrong."

Meg smirks. "Whoa, Deano, kinda jumping the gun a bit. I'm on your side now."

"No you're not. You're on your side. I'm not stupid. I don't trust you, and I never will."

"You have some serious trust issues," Meg growls, her anger bubbling over, her smirk falling. "I'm not here to screw you over. I'm here for me, and that means I need you." She huffs, glaring at him. "It seems to be a reoccurring theme."

"I don't like it."

"Neither do I."

Meg turns around, but Dean grabs her shoulder, spinning her back. "I don't expect you to tell us everything, but you better think twice if you can keep hiding what you did."

"What? Are you out of your mind?" Meg demands, tugging herself out of Dean's grip.

"You helped Cas get that blood, you helped him find Purgatory. This is your fault."

"Really?" Meg asks, her eyebrows quirking up. "You're going to put this all on me? Because you and Sammy had as much to do with it as I did."

Dean visibly flinches from her accusation.

"Yeah, you two don't have hands any cleaner than I do," Meg spits, turning and stalking into the house. Dean doesn't follow, he stands beside the truck and stares after her. The door slams and she walks into the study.

Sam drops the corner of the rug, and Bobby looks up in surprise. "Meg," he says awkwardly.

She looks between them, her lip twitching in anger. When she steps into the room, Sam and Bobby back away. She grabs the corner of the rug and tears it away. "A devil's trap," she growls. "Cute, boys."

"Meg..."

She holds her hand up, stopping Sam. "No, I see what's going on here. I'll come back when you can be more mature about it."

When Dean walks in, Meg is gone. He looks down at the floor and up to Bobby and Sam. "Didn't work?" he asks.

"Good deduction," Bobby grunts.


End file.
